Galeway
by skyward.eyes
Summary: The story follows the bond developed between Priest Seth and Kisara, the possessor of the White Dragon spirit.  *Chapter 1-4; ancient Egypt. *Independent Sub-chapters 6 & 7; present-day.
1. Chapter 1

**GALEWAY**

A Yu-Gi-Oh Fanfiction

**Summary:**

This story follows the past life of Seto Kaiba, as Priest Seth—one of the seven major priests of the Pharaoh Atem. Priest Seth—ambitious, young, and frighteningly handsome—found himself touched and angered by a group of people bullying a powerless woman named Kisara, who got accused as a thief for stealing only a small glass of water.

Although the law forced the Priest to imprison the poor lady, his guilt drove him to visit Kisara regularly. During those visits he finally sensed that was something strong that had not yet awoken inside the lady, and he wanted to find out. Started out as a mission, flowed smoothly toward a friendship, later a strong bond developed between the Priest and Kisara…

**Warning:**

Some details had been** heavily** **altered.**

**Disclaimer:**

Yu Gi Oh, as well as all of the characters in it, all courtesy of Kazuki Takahashi.

**1.**

_A man_

_Whose face bore the arrogance of the sun_

_In his hands were the might of the gods_

_In his veins_

_uncertainty_

_In his heart_

_determination_

_In his eyes_

_a piece of secrecy_

THE SUN SHONE BRIGHTLY IN THE CLEAR BLUE SKY. THERE WERE ONLY THIN, WHITE, ALMOST transparent layers of cloud could be seen near the magnificent palace where the Pharaoh dwelled.

Its rays were golden—like honey, like a layer of fine golden silk—and there was something in its warmth enhanced the beauty of the palace and its brownish bricks, as well as the guards' golden chest plates, their fine silver spears, and sapphire-embroidered hand daggers attached to their muscular waists. Treasures of ancient age, grandiosity of the blooming era where wisdom reigned; people lived in harmony, and happy chatters were everywhere, even in the darkest alleyways near the ouskirts of the city—a picture of a perfect era in the hand of a wise ruler. He was loved; he loved them, too—and paid tons of attention on their needs. He took his people as his sons and daughers, they honored him as the right hand of Ra.

Inside the palace there was a large, highly-organized courtyard where more guards settled firmly and calmly. There was a fine road made of white bricks slicing the courtyard into two from the middle, leading to the palace's main chamber where huge chandeliers made of gold, silver, brimmed with peridots, sapphires, and garnets—the Pharaoh's favorite stone—hung graciously on the ceiling. During days, the precious stones had painted the hall in rainbowlike tones, as a result of translating the golden rays of light that filtered through the wide arched windows—at nights when the guard lit fire atop the silver plate, the fire instantly found its own strength as the stones translated its heat and warmth into heartwarming shades of emerald green and burnt orange. The round, engraved plate as the hall's main decoration remained the same—constantly in its grandiosity like the coat of the Pharaoh—it was guarded by lots of guards, too, and none of them dared to step on it, because it was the Pharaoh's face immortalized on the beautiful plate. When the Pharaoh was young, an old sculptor told his father that his son was going to be fine leader, and that he would carve a history of his own, shinning in endless golden ages. After the short foretelling, the sculptor asked the previous Pharaoh for a giant plate made of twenty carats gold, and the rest was history—the sculptor carved the young prince's face on it.

The inner chamber was even more grandiose than the main hall. It was a round hall with high ceiling, with eight channels—seven led toward the Pharaoh's Priests' private chambers, the middlemost was a path toward the Pharaoh's throne. It was decorated mostly by gold, crimson-red garnets, and fine colorful silks—mostly rimmed with golden threads—and peacock feathers—'representing the grandiosity and kindness of Your Grace,' they said. The inner chamber was the final stance for the imperial guards, and pass the chamber—in the palace's grand sanctum, there was only those seven, utterly honorable Priests with their special abilities which were able to overwhelm the abilities of ten thousand imperial guards altogether, according to the legend.

Pharaoh Atem had presented each of them with special items—a metal eye that could foresee the future, a crosslike banner with an arched crown that could also function as a key to the Underworld, and in the hand of the most beautiful man of the seven—his skin was the color of wet earth under the golden rays of sun, his clear green eyes exuded pressuring mysteries; a sunken ship deep in the abyss, as well as unknown ambitions, his robe was the deep shade of fine indigo silk, black leather, rimmed with gold plates decorated with emerald stones almost in the same shade of his eyes—a metal rod with an metal eye on its tip that was able to summon the spirit of a Black Dragon.

He was the youngest of the seven, as well as the most rebellious one. Pharaoh Atem was very proud of him, and wasn't at all curious at him although some people had warned him about the young Priest's possible ambition to take over his throne.

"This bright young man is the kingdom's fine seed," that was his answer, "I know he is very reliable. After all, there's always a sadness in his eyes—he will never take over the throne with that kind of sadness. You can only rule this kingdom with love—and it is the only piece missing in his soul."

"YOUR GRACE!" THE YOUNG PRIEST CLENCHED HIS FIST AND LOOKED STRAIGHT INTO THE Pharaoh's eyes while the other six looked seemingly indifferent, although there were undeniable disagreement in their hearts.

Pharaoh Atem—sitting cross-legged on his gold-and-garnet majestic throne—leaned forward and smiled. He used his right lower arm to support the weight of his head. His eyes reflected curiousity instead of anger—admiration instead of distaste—he was always curious of the young rebel. "What do you have in your mind, Priest Seth?" he shocked the rest of his Priests by his answer, and his determined smile had shocked them even more, "you are a fine scholar and a bright young man, I am open to your propositions."

Priest Seth stepped forward, grabbed the rod in his right hand tightly as if he was about to crush it into dust, bowed a bit although it was apparent that he didn't mean it, finally jutted his head up so that his eyes could meet the Pharaoh's, and answered—"This thief, Bakura, should be sentenced to death. He endangers the whole civilization, as well as national treasures originated from our ancestors with that spirit of his!"—with the same determination in his clear eyes.

The smile of the Pharaoh was calming, but his eyes reflected nothing else but disagreement. It was not because he didn't want to be bold, it was because eventhough Bakura was more of a savaged warrior, a disdainful thief—the Pharaoh still adored him as one of his people; that meant he totally opposed Priest Seth's idea of death sentence. Pharaoh Atem despised darkness and sadness—grief and grim—blood and gore. Unlike his late father, he was not—at all—into death punishments or tortures. During his era of reign, there was only two people got sentenced to death, and it was because they'd killed their own sons as false offerings to an imaginary demon—they wanted to be rich, and their sons were sacrificed as sufferings with their throats ripped open, and the punishment itself was merely caused by the pressures from his loved people, instead of his own desire.

Priest Seth knew that his brilliance had failed him—another time—and he was totally displeased by that. His jaw tightened and his eyes burned in anger. The time Pharaoh Atem sealed the conference with a final decision—to give Bakura one last chance to redeem, because he hadn't killed any of his people so far—the young prince turned his face in distaste and left the room with such sinister grace that reflected an eclipsed moon hanging above the silent Sahara at night.

The gutter of his long, noble cape followed his departure. It flowed in the dimmed Grand Sanctum like the wings of a dark angel, leaving lingering traces as he left—slicing through the damp warm air of Egypt at night with his eyes skyward.

PRIEST SETH WAS IN A FOUL MOOD. HIS HEAD WAS SLIGHTLY DIZZY THE TIME HE WOKE UP, AND his eyes were pinkish, with purplish circle under them due to lack of sleep.

He took off his noble indigo coat and put on a humbler one made of fine white silk—with gold embroideries on its gutter, and small piece of ruby stones around the neck—called upon two men of the imperial cavalry guard to accompany him for morning walk to the public market downtown.

The two guards looked at each other in confusion when the young priest asked them to do so. It was, after all, very unusual for the naturally secluded and utterly introverted scholar to take a walk during the day. They wanted to believe that some sort of destiny had led him to do so—but his clear green eyes had signaled otherwise: he only desired a refreshing walk.

"My eyes got tired because of reading and writing too much—I want a break," Priest Seth didn't even smile, although he probably wanted to: the tip of his lips showed a very vivid, almost invisible curve.

"Fine, Young Lord, we are at your service," the guard fetched a fine black stallion for the priest and got on their horses. A moment later they were already outside the palace, all prepared for an unsual morning walk.

**To BE CONTINUED Chapter 2 will be published A WEEK later…**


	2. Chapter 2

**2.**

_Colorful spreads of fantasy_

_Bright layers marked the edges of reality_

_The prince on his fine stallion looked down_

_and asked Machiavelli_

"_Could you reign the throne of fantasy like Alighieri?"_

THE PUBLIC MARKET WAS CROWDED, WITH PUNGENT SMELLS OF SPICES, SWEAT, AND NEWLY-painted fabrics. Priest Seth was amazed by a slight hint of sophistication shown by the Pharaoh's people which were dressed in colorful satins. As the priest's fine stallion soaked through the people-swarmed paths, the crowds spontaneously cleared themselves from his way, with polite bows and greets—"Your Grace"—as he passed by.

The beauty of several young ladies with their heads wrapped in long scarves of mixed patterns had surprised him, too—for the scarves were nicely tied around their small, feminine heads, leaving only a small slice of sight of their jet-black hair; pure east-meets-west beauty that had evoked his imaginations a bit.

They were, of course, aware of the priest's beauty and countless of them had tried to gain longish eye contacts with him—they wanted to be in his eyes, get his attention, and perhaps find a way to his majestic private chamber for a night together—but none of them suceeded. They were beautiful, but the priest himself was highly aware of his Narcissus-like beauty he felt it was highly unecessary to greet them back: after all, he was of noble line and they weren't, and he didn't want to get himself blinded by such destructive sparks. The desperate women then tried to flirt with the two guards, who were easily—and clearly—aroused by their black-rimmed seductive eyes, lush lips, and caramel skin.

It was a hot day, and the high hat atop the priest's head had made him uncomfortable, so he took it off and stuffed it into a leather pocket hung on the horse's side. His exposed light brown hair had once again taken the attention of the young women, and the hair looked more beautiful under the light yellow fainting light of the morning sun—with the hat off, his face's flesh got entirely lit by the warmth light, too, and that sight had driven lots of women restless through their countless nights because of the priest's silklike, shining, flawless skin under the sun. It was easier for them to believe that he was merely a son of Isis, the goddess of beauty, or his father Obelisk, the god of might, because he bore not only a stunning face, but also a well-chiseled body.

The walk pleased the priest, and the sights of colorful canvas roofs for each stands had delighted his artistic sense a poem crossed his head incidentally—he smiled. He told the two guards to stop at the spot sheltered with high palm trees near a quite big square house made of fine white bricks—a jewelry store, it was—and asked for a pen and a piece of paper to write down the verses that were already engraved on his brain before. He was very pleased that he decided to buy several emerald-rimmed bracelets from the store before continuing his journey.

Everything was fine until the crowd suddenly gathered in a place, very close to the center of the market, and there were big, bearded men screamed hostile curses toward an unseen object—"You filthy cur! Street rat!"—at first the priest thought it was merely a stray cat that had stolen a small bite of meat, but as the howls got more and more intense, he signaled the two guards to follow him.

As they got closer and closer, the priest saw a young woman with her body covered in mud and her face bore thin wounds because of previous hits she'd gotten from the big men, with her white slipdress had torned badly in the front, almost exposing her nipples.

At the sight of the young priest, the woman jutted her head up hopelessly. She was too limp to even voice a request to be helped, she'd only managed to glance at the eyes of the arrogant-looking priest atop his fine black stallion, wishing for a slightest bit of mercy.

HE JUMPED DOWN THE STALLION, AND WITH HIS SHARP EYES ONLY, SPLINTERED THE CROWD into several parts, leaving almost no trace of forcefulness and hostility. Even the two big men were visibly afraid—they suddenly went down on their knees asking the priest for forgiveness which he ignored completely. He went straight toward the silver-haired lady on the floor and offered his hand, causing a lot of twitters in the background and confusion floating in the tense air.

"My—Lord—"she had almost ran out of breath when she raised her hand and grabbed the priest's hand. In her left hand there was a small glass of water, and he instantly figured out that it was merely the cause of her damages.

Priest Seth was shocked by the streak of warmth in his heart as their hands intertwined—between the dried, now dusty, mud; the dry tips of her slim fingers against his well-groomed manly hands there was a secret key to a vacant place in his heart. As his eyes met her clear blue eyes, he knew that the woman was someone unsual. She was beautiful—very beautiful—even the traces of dried soil on her face couldn't conceal her natural beauty: her almond-shaped eyes, her small nose, her well-curved chin and equally slim upper lip—and the strands of her messed-up hair on her face couldn't conceal the gentleness in her eyes. She tried to smile, but it was a weak one, and as she spoke another sentence—"gods…be…with…you…"—she gave the impression that she was about to collapse.

Indeed she did, and Priest Seth himself was the one who brought her to the palace for a recovery, before she got sent to prison because of her hopeless wrongdoing.

THE DUNGEON WASN'T A PROPER PLACE FOR SUCH FINE WOMAN, SO WAS THE PRIEST'S thought, although the sentence was inevitable because he had to stood by the law.

It was his second time in the dungeon, and the silence—it was so silent there he could even hear the sound of his own breaths and clear sounds of the stomps of his leather shoes against the black, damp, moss-covered bricks—had recalled the horror he'd seen with his father as a child. Pharaoh Atem's father had a thing toward tortures, so was his father. As a boy he was once taken here to witness a decapitation of a thief. The silence and the dimly-lit long corridor—using only lights from the flame torches attached on the wall—had brought back the scalding horror inside his head—he stuttered a bit.

The guard stopped several meters near Kisara's cell by the end of the dark corridor, leaving the priest to continue his step on his own, still in his own haunting past fears. Although it was still silent, in his mind there were voices reflecting agonies, pain, desperation, and death filling the air, trapping him in a bubble filled of black fog.

The lady was asleep, and the Priest didn't want to interrupt her rest. He was about to leave when her's limp body emanated a light—a fainting white, silverish light in the shape of a… winged dragon—and in a moment the entire dungeon started shaking madly as if a strong earthquake was approaching the palace from every direction. The quake got stronger and stronger that the two guards which were in charge of accompanying his visit approached him with paled faces, asking the Priest to leave the dungeon soon before the entire concrete construction collapsed into smithereens.

Priest Seth said no, instead, he asked one of them for the key to enter the cell. At first the guard was hesitant, but the Priest's sharp eyes—once again—had gained him his right to enter the cell. He unlocked the cell and shook the lady's body, trying to wake her up.

IT TOOK QUITE A LONG FOR HIM TO WAKE HER UP, AND ONCE SHE WOKE UP SHE SCREAMED IN shock, almost fainted when she spotted the white-cape-clad Priest Seth sat on the edge of her bed, with his caramel skin lit by the dim small light on the bedside table.

"My lord!" she almost shrieked—"Calm down!"—he replied in a rush, "you don't want them to hear you."

The lady was totally taken aback by the young priest's beauty and strong eyes, so she instantly looked down with her cheeks reddened, burning in embarrassment when Priest Seth tried to get her into a conversation. He was not a good casual talker either—he was too much of a complicated, overly-reserved talker who wanted no flaw in his speech—so he stayed silent for a moment, until he came up with a classic opening line:

"What should I call you with, young lady?"

She was still looking down, her fine face was almost completely covered by her long silver strands when she answered, "Kisara, my lord."

He was about to ask about the dragon he'd seen in a light exuded from her body while she was asleep, but finally decided to keep the question for himself, thinking that Kisara may not understood or realized a thing of it herself. After all, he thought that the question was absurd, and it was more of a spiritual-oriented question rather than a common one—and he didn't want to waste his time questioning a stranger with such laughable absurdity.

Silence.

"Thank you for saving me, my lord. May the blessing of the gods be with you," said Kisara, her tone was extremely low—a reflection of her thorough insecurity and false humbleness.

Priest Seth wanted to stay, and Kisara desired the same thing, but none of them could express that. After another long pause wrapped in the warm night air and the ghastly silence, the Priest stood up, smiled vaguely, said a quick—"Take care."—and left.

The sight of the white dragon had prevented him from a decent rest that night.

"FORGIVE MY SON'S RESTLESSNESS, YOUR GRACE," PRIEST AKNADIN STEPPED FORWARD, AS IF to eclipse Priest Seth's sharp wit with his dubious composure. He was Priest Seth's mentor, but since the young priest had sensed some kind of menace in the bearer of the Eye's persona, he didn't want to get too close to him.

Priest Seth stepped back, in his face was another distaste. The recent news about Bakura's crime—robbing bags of treasures and _murdered_ at least two guards in Pharaoh Atem's father's tomb last night—had weighed him down, beside the wistful issue of the white dragon spirit he'd seen coming out from Kisara's body two nights ago.

Pharaoh Atem understood Priest Seth's issue completely, as well as the raging heart that was boiling behind his tough ribs, waiting to break free like a mop of eagles in the storm, "I appreciate your dedication, Priest Seth, and Bakura will be soon put into consideration—" he paused, and the Priest's eyes brightened in relief—by the word 'consideration' meant there was a possibility for a future death sentence for the hostile thief. The Pharaoh clenched his left hand using the right one then put them both under his chin, supporting the weight of his head, "according to the law my ancestors had created…he should be condemned for a death sentence very soon."

Priest Seth smiled. He knew he'd emerged victorious this time.

As the seven priests and the Pharaoh departed from the emptied Grand Sanctum, Priest Aknadin's eye was lit by something strange—a glare close to hatred, almost as dark as vengeance—he realized that he should do something to stop the death sentence; and there was not much time left for him to complete the errands. He was surprised by how swiftly the young priest could handle things, and how the Pharaoh seemed to admire and appreciate the fine scholar's opinion quite too lavishly.

His feeling was not a threatened feeling of being eclipsed by someone far younger, and that man was practically his son—it was more of a threatened feeling because he was unable to stop the running time.

THERE WAS A BRIGHT LIGHT EMANATED FROM KISARA'S CELL, AND PRIEST SETH ASKED THE guards whether they'd seen the same illumination for days. When they confirmed that the sight was already familiar for them, he asked the guard for the key and rushed toward the cell, only to find Priest Shada, with his Millennium Key and stark-white cape—almost angelic—stood still behind the rusted bars. He turned toward Priest Seth when he'd sensed someone else coming.

"Good evening. It is very unusual to find you here, Shada," Priest Seth greeted, almost too coldly. Priest Shada knew when to leave—he nodded and smiled politely, but as he passed by the young priest he'd whispered something before Priest Seth's ear—"She has the power… almost equal to the gods."—then drifted away like a soft evening breeze through the silent, dimly-lit corridor, then straight to the spiral staircase.

Priest Seth stood still for a moment, and Kisara—as if she'd sensed the arrival of the man she'd always longed for—suddenly woke up, then quickly tidied her messy hair. She'd changed to a cleaner robe—probably given by Priest Shada—and the wounds on her face were almost vanished, bringing her young silklike skin as the main point of interest once again. When she saw Priest Seth, her clear aquamarine eyes glowed distinctively, as if welcoming the arrival of a long-awaited lover who'd just completed his journey from the Far East.

"My lord!" that was her initial sentence, and her usual expression of gladness. For the first time in his life, Priest Seth finally smiled wholeheartedly, and such beautiful smile shocked Kisara. She was indeed aware of the young priest's beauty, but the beauty radiated from his emotional eyes when he smiled was even more unbearable she started thinking whether the priest was actually a half-god-half-man, an offspring of Isis and a very handsome mortal.

He didn't sit down on the edge of her bed, instead, he stood up and stared into Kisara's eyes—penetrating every single corner of her mind—her consciousness—her sense of existence—wishing that he'd eventually glance into the spirit of the white dragon in her although the warmness in his heart everytime he glanced into those eyes was almost inevitable.

"I'd seen…" Priest Seth—almost out of his consciousness—spoke under his breath.

"Yes, my lord?" Kisara leaned her body forward, unsconsciously enchanted the fine priest with her skinny collarbones, long neck, and her straight long hair that framed her bony face almost too perfectly.

Priest Seth paused, and he stared deep into Kisara's eyes one more time, trying to make himself sure that the lady wouldn't laugh at his absurdity. He'd rather incinerate himself in the blazing inferno than getting laughed at.

"A…white dragon's… spirit," still unsure, he kept his tone unusually low. Rush of cold beads of sweat already swarmed the root of his hair above his forehead, as well as his palms.

Kisara didn't answer. In her eyes was nothing else but confusion. It didn't take long for Priest Seth to realize that the lady was also unaware of the presence of the white dragon's spirit.

Feeling ashamed and bewildered because he was being 'imperfect' in his own opinions, Priest Seth put his emerald-brimmed coat back on and rushed out of the cell without a word.

Kisara—still in her fragile, most feminine gentle streaks of emotions—was dissapointed because she desired the fine priest to stay. She couldn't figure out what was the feeling, but the sights of Priest Seth started feeling like ugly addictions—intoxicating experiences worth longing for—since the day she'd glanced into those clear green eyes the day he saved her from her demise.

Meanwhile, in his private chamber, Priest Seth had just retained himself from asking Priest Shada about the white dragon's spirit—although the senior priest, as well as an acclaimed guardian of Millennium Key might had known something—instead, he only wrote those strange experiences on his private leather-bound journal and hid it back under his bed after he'd finished writing.

Behind the thin silk curtains, Priest Aknadin—clad in black leather cape, almost unseen in the darkened yard—stood several steps before his son's opened window, in his eyes were unusual determinations.

**Author's Note:**

As promised… chapter 2. Chapter 3 is up soon, probably a week later as well.

Thank you for reading and reviewing!


	3. Chapter 3

**3.**

_Sunshine in her hair_

_Moonlight in her lashes_

_Stardust under her thin white blouse_

_I'll attach that yellow flower on your hair_

_Teach you how to dance and fly_

_Spin with me, Marie—_

_to the realms of eternity_

_and the hands of time shall extend their marvelous limbs_

_Spin with me._

"MY LORD, WHY DO ALL THE IMPERIAL GUARDS HAVE TO LOOK SO STERN?" KISARA ASKED, A bright smile was on her face. Priest Seth looked away and smiled secretly—he wanted to look as reserved as the man he always was, but the friendliness between them that had went on for a month had made it harder for him to hide his smile for a longer period of time.

"They all have to look like that."

"What's wrong with a bit of smile, or probably, a laughter?" she asked back, she was merely adressing the young priest as well, because he has always been so aloof, despite his kind nature. She was curious about the fine man's real side, in spite of his obvious masculinity and exceptional intelligence. She loved envisioning him as a black pearl inside a tough shell made of layers of metal—the black pearl, of course, was the core, the true essence of his traits and soul, and the shell was merely his tough exterior. Her clear blue eyes had made it harder for Priest Seth to keep his composure, and it was her silver strands that could easily lock the fine priest's attention on her joyful face.

"I believe they're signs of weakness," Priest Seth tried to keep his tone flat, as if he was uninterested.

"Then all comedians are _weak_, my lord, they probably need help," Kisara played with her tone, trying to lure the fine young priest's attention, although it was obvious that he was already fascinated, "and—the newborn babies are, too! Because they all laugh when their mothers tickle their soft flesh!"

"I thought we're talking about guards, Kisara," he couldn't refuse to smile anymore. It was the first time she'd seen his well-groomed rows of white teeth, and heard the aloof priest called her name. She paused and smiled. Priest Seth looked away in embarrassment, and was about to leave when Kisara called him—"My lord?"—he turned around—"that sounds good—my name spoken by you.

"And we are talking about smile and laughter in common, my lord, not the _guards_!" she glanced into Priest Seth's blue eyes. Kisara loved the noble shade of blue in them—like a pair of aged aquamarines, that had been preserved for a long, long time.

"You speak of it as if it's the only thing left in the world, which is hilarious."

"No, no—why is it? People look better when they smile!" Kisara was also unable to control her raging desire anymore, so she leaned toward he fine priest—for no intention, really—it was only a natural call from her body—her brain under the effect of the unseen aphrodisiac—but it was, at the same time, inevitable, "even better when they laugh!

"I love the sounds of laughter. It's like standing under a bright sun before a shining beach," she spaced out a bit, her eyes were distant, as if she was glancing into her own fantasy world.

"You are very unpredictable," Priest Seth made a half-smile. He was charmed—badly charmed—just like Kisara herself, who was already totally attracted with him.

"Unpredictable is an adjective for my hair and my eyes, my lord—but I am someone concrete that you can see—_clearly_ see—and I have feelings—_strong_ feelings—that you can…feel," she lowered her tone, almost too femininely when she said 'feel'. She leaned against the wall and examined the fine figure of Priest one more time—his aquamarine eyes, his light brown hair, his café au lait skin, the grandiose cape that looked very good in him—while doing that she narrowed her eyes a little as if the beauty of the man had almost blinded her, then smiled her best.

Priest Seth pressed on his laps with both palms and rose up from the wooden chair. He couldn't hide the apparent shimmer in his eyes, "It's time for me to go."

Kisara sat still on her bed, and smiled. It crossed the Priest's mind once that he'd pretend as if he'd already left, then came back later when the lady was already asleep to notice the spirit of the white dragon more closely but he shook the thought off his head soon. Instead, he continued tracing the dimly-lit corridor, climbed the spiral staircase, then straight toward the tightly-sealed iron gates—

"Something _peculiar_ down there, my son?" That was Priest Aknadin, to Priest Seth's surprise. His eyes showed unlikely quirks and in his face was another strange-looking grin. Something in his eyes had changed a bit, although he was unable to exactly note whatever it was.

Priest Seth ignored his father and passed him by, but just like what had happened between him and Priest Shada, the bearded priest mumbled a clear sentence in that gap between seconds as he passed his son by—"A spirit…almost as strong as Bakura's dark spirit."—Priest Seth stopped walking and jerked his head in the direction of his father, but it was already too late—the old man's smile suddenly looked all distant, and in the darkness his wrinkled face started turning into a face possessed by the dead—almost soulless, zombielike—for a moment in his paralyzed state, Priest Seth thought that he'd seen an undead striding under the moonlight in his black leather cape.

PRIEST SHADA CLENCHED HIS HANDS AND LOOKED DOWN, CONCENTRATING SOMBERLY TO answer Priest Seth's question. The morning sun was warm and fine, its honey-colored lights outlined the grandiosity of the palace very well, but their conversation was like a local night—a bubble of darkeness in the midst of the familiar warmth of a breezy day.

"It's certainly a spirit, Seth, and it's mixed with her mind. They are two inseparable substances, if you know what I mean," Priest Shada paused. His eyes skyward, as if the sky was transparent and he could glance at the stars right away.

"It's unusual, Shada—unsually strong—I don't understand how someone as gentle as her can be a possessor of such spirit."

"She can be the incarnation of the spirit herself, Seth."

Priest Seth looked away, his heartbeats ran faster and faster, as if he'd already sensed a catastrophic danger coming her way, "Just… don't let my father know. I don't feel really well about him—in fact, I _never_ do."

Then he left.

THE CHAMBER WAS DARK, ONLY A SMALL CANDLE LIT IN THE CORNER OF THE ROOM, AND A BIT of silverish radiation from the moonlight outlined the interior of the room. The bed was placed right in the middle, its thin silk curtain down, close to it was a small table made of fine, carved ivory rimmed by gold, accentuated by sapphire fragments—the servants had placed several small cylinders of cinnamon-scented candles on the fine linen covering in the color of rainbow.

Priest Aknadin wasn't fine—one of his limp blue-veined hand hung by the side of the bed, and his lips almost white, as if he was sick. There was something almost abnormal about the way he slept. His white robe sprawled on the linen bedsheet, like a dead butterfly's immaculate wings. His eyes looked distant, as if he'd already seen the gates of Underworld opened up and the creatures that were previously locked behind it came out to trade his soul for nothingness.

His private servants came out of the room with paled faces. It was easier to believe that they'd just seen wraiths than an unhealthy man. Priest Seth didn't say anything, he didn't even look at them as he paid his sick father a visit.

The air in the room was unusually cold, and there was something in it signaling a pressuring presence of dark spirit almost too clearly, as if a ritual—a _pact_—involving a legion of demon had just been done here. As he got closer and closer to his father's limp body the air got colder, and the alarming dark aura got stronger, there was even something in the air smelling like… blood—thick, corrupted human blood—whose smell was familiar to an undead's scent he'd purified a year ago from the Holy Tomb.

"Father?" Priest Seth stepped closer, although it couldn't be said that he was really care about his father's illness. He was already so close he could hear the slow, hoarse breaths—which sounded like the sound of breaths made by someone suffering from a respiratory organ disease—he could already tell that the old man had caught an unusual 'disease'.

Priest Seth summon the servants and told them to light the chandelier, only to hear the old man's hoarse screaming voice—"NO!"—and the servants withdrew, greatly shocked.

"What is the matter, father? I will be able to see you clearly that way," then he walked toward the uncovered open window, but when he was about to free the curtain from its gold-trimmed holder, Priest Aknadin—seemingly half-conscious—screamed, almost at the top of his lungs, "Let me taste the air, son!"

Priest Seth nodded unwillingly and pulled his hand, and placed them behind his waist. The dense atmosphere remained strangely menacing, but the longer he remained in the chamber the more he was able to cope with it.

It was until the moment he saw the old Priest rose up from his bed, with half of his face covered in blood. The Millennium Eye wasn't there, and as Priest Seth looked closer, there were spots and small rivers of dried blood on the linen bedsheet, and his father's right fingers.

"Father! Who did this to you?" Priest Seth approaced his father in great horror, opened the curtain on the old man's right arm side and took his limb body in his arms.

Priest Aknadin—out of his son's expectation—laughed maniacally, as if the pain hadn't affected him at all, not even the slightest tip of his finger.

"My son—my beloved, beautiful son—you are so wise you can take over the entire kingdom from the Pharaoh's incapable hands…" he murmured, still with that hoarse voice. Priest Seth frowned—he was confused he didn't even want to know the reason behind the blasphemous talk. His father always looked calm, especially in front of the Pharaoh, and had gained the young ruler's respect as both a fine scholar and a respectable spiritual figure—seeing the old man sent to the dungeon for his half-trance improper words was the last thing Priest Seth wanted to see—

"No, don't you ever say such thing again, father. You know such thing should not be in our minds."

"I am not yet finished, my son…" Priest Aknadin's voice was weak, almost fading as a flow of insignificant echo behind the walls of silence, "you can overthrow the Pharaoh's gods—if you possess the white dragon…," he paused, and repeated, in a much slower speed, "the… white…dragon…my…son."

Silence broke between the two. Priest Aknadin passed out. Priest Seth—in his own restlessness—put the limp body back on the blood-tainted bed, rushed toward his own chamber, put on a black leather cape and as he ran into Priest Shada on the way to the dungeon, he grabbed the wise priest's collar and pushed him forcefully against the wall.

"Did you tell my father about the spirit? Did _you_?" Priest Seth's eyes were filled with anger, but Priest Shada remained calm. Having sensed no notable fear, the young priest tightened his grip.

Priest Shada let quite a long silence fell between the two, until Priest Seth had calmed himself down a bit, although the grip on his collar was still tight—although slightly weakened,"I didn't tell him, Seth. It was already popular among the guards, and it had reached even Pharaoh Atem.

"You cannot hide a peculiarity—in this case, a very strong spirit—for a long time."

Priest Seth loosened the grip, let go of the collar, then apologized for his insolence. Priest Shada smiled and shook his head—"It does not matter, Seth. I clearly understand"—he leaned closer toward the young priest and whispered something that had, once again, reminded Priest Seth of his past fears—"these recent days, I've seen the spirit of the white dragon reacted toward something perilous. It is apparent that the spirit is currently in its most restless state."

Without a word, Priest Seth rushed toward the dungeon. He knew—he obviously knew it—that a grave danger was already on its way.

Only time would tell him when.

KISARA WAS ASLEEP, AND PRIEST SETH—WITH THE USUAL KEYS IN HIS HAND—QUICKLY UNLOCKED the bars and woke her up.

"My lord! What is the matter?" her voice was weak. It was late in the night and she'd just awoken from sleep.

"Kisara—" Priest Seth paused, staring deep into her confused blue eyes. In the back of his mind, he knew that he should eventually tell the lady about the power she possessed, and how potentially dangerous it would possibly harm her, "there's a spirit—a powerful spirit—inside you—" he paused again, unsure whether he should continue or stop completely. He finally decided to continue, "you have to be careful, Kisara. You have to be careful of the man with his right eye replaced by a metal eye… have you seen him?" Priest Seth leaned closer, and Kisara nodded.

"The priest wasn't so friendly. He has frenzied eyes and he didn't leave for a long time—I was unable to sleep properly that night when he visited." She affirmed, still with her sleepy eyes.

Priest Seth realized that a piece of him had just died. In his heart, an immeasurable fear had almost consumed his entire sanity.

"Kisara, when it gets grave…come to me."

She wanted to take his hand and kiss his forehead, only to ease his restlessness. Although she'd also realized that a grave danger was already on its way, he didn't want the young Priest to look that severe. Not that she desired a calm night with the Priest, it was because she adored him—she finally realized that—and she wanted him to be calm,with his soul far from havoc.

"What is the matter, my lord?"

Just then, a horrid earthquake shook the dungeon in the way that was worse than the night when Kisara's white dragon spirit emanated its holy force for the first time behind the rusted bars.

Priest Seth took her hand and pulled her up from her bed. Her silver hair was still unruly, her eyes sleepy, and her white, almost too thin, robe was wrinkled, but she obeyed the young Priest and grabbed his hand.

She knew she was safe.

_**T B C**_

**Author's Note:**

Chapter 4 will be posted soon.

Thank you for all of your supports, they mean a lot!


	4. Chapter 4

**4.**

_Fates_

_questions_

_unsettling hearts, battle of secrets_

_damages of the hearts_

_Or is it only a small black spot on Ra's burning wings—?_

_To summon the daylight, I am_

_the wing_

_the soul_

_the core;_

_The melody that will last five thousand more years._

**BAKURA, CLAD IN A BEAUTIFUL RED SILK-AND-GOLD-STRANDS-ACCENTED ROBE WHICH WAS **previously worn by the Pharaoh's father in the day of his funeral, stood like an epitaph on the courtyard. Next to him were countless of dead guards, covered in blood, their face unrecognized and most of them had their upper body badly damaged—either holed or simply scattered into piece, their heads decapitated: from those dead heads could be clearly seen vacant, blood-covered eyes. Their blood-clad flesh scattered as pulps on the once-so-noble ground.

"I call upon the darkness—a welcoming ceremony of blood for Your Highness, Dark Lord Zorc Necrophades," he spread his hands with a menacing smile. His brown skin was a pure sight of horror covered in blood. His mint-green eyes were like those of an undead's. We could easily imagine a dark fog surrounding his arrogant figure, although it was clearly not there. His aura was pure evil, and he made sets of teeth clattered by his presence alone.

Pharaoh Atem, along with his five priests, rushed toward the courtyard to handle the mess, although it was already too late. He had his battle robe on—a shining armor made of fine black steel covered his body—he also had the Millennium Puzzle with him.

"Darkness… darkness for Your Highness Dark Lord Zorc Necrophades," Bakura stood still, and the Pharaoh witnessed as he slayed more upcoming guards, which were, in their skilfullness, looked almost hopeless against Bakura's might.

Priest Seth had just arrived with Kisara, who screamed in the sight in the bloody sight and hid her face behind the Priest's wide shoulders. She was unable to speak a word; the massacre had made her stomach hurt, and her sight slightly blured she wished she was blind.

To everyone's surprise, the dead-looking Priest Aknadin—with his still-bleeding right eye socket and his Millennium Item in his right hand—clad in the same blood-tainted white robe Priest Seth had seen him in earlier this night, walked toward the hostile silver-raven-haired thief and bowed before him like an obedient servant. His knees bent at a severe angle, almost croching, and his voice was hoarse and bore a strange quality to it, like an echo that split the voice into two parts.

"We shall have all of them taken care of, my mighty lord."

Priest Seth took his Millenium Rod, ready to call the spirit of the black dragon and fight Bakura's evil force, in hope to vanquish it—but Priest Shada, from the opposite side of the courtyard, stepped forward and shouted—"Seth, I will take care of him. Save the spirit!"—and the turned around to meet the Pharaoh's eyes—"Your Grace, please, let me. May the blessing of the gods always be with you!"

The Pharaoh, Priest Seth, and his remaining priests in the exception of the converted Priest Aknadin knew that was the last time they'd witnessed the thoughtful and mighty Priest Shada alive. As their hurried steps merged into the troublesome air, in Priest Shada's ears were left only the fading echoes of those steps and voices. He stood there, readying himself as a living sacrifice— even in his calmness he'd known that Bakura's might would end up surpassing his very soon. His eyes were staring at the sky, and his figure stood still, as if standing against the wind that carried the thick scent of blood.

At least he was still alive— for now.

**PRIEST SETH AND KISARA HELD HANDS EVEN TIGHTLIER THAN BEFORE, THEN HE LED HER OUT OF **the destroyed courtyard—in the background were overlapping voices of agony and death, just like the ones he'd heard as a young man when he visited the dungeon. He tightened his grip and pretended as if he was unable to hear any of them.

Bakura had dispatched his evil spirits to ruin the entire palace, using Priest Aknadin's body as a medium—like a gate—so that the spirits could easily enter the concrete universe.

Soldiers got slaughtered, countless of them, as they tried to protect the Pharaoh for his safe escape. The priests took him to the Sacred Tomb, for they thought the place might be his secure last stance from Bakura's merciless infliltration. The tomb's corridor was equipped with giant guillotines, and its strong gates were almost impenetrable.

Just when they thought things could not get any worse, a swarm of undead enemies rammed through the doors. One of the priests activated the guillotines but they were as well as useless compared to the dead soldiers' agility. Although most of them got sliced into pieces, too many of them managed to escape the massacre and headed straight towards the Pharaoh's stance. In that grave condition, the high priests sacrificed their lives one by one to buy the Pharaoh more times, in hope that he would be able to escape safely.

Pharaoh Atem occasionally looked behind in horror, as he witnessed his beloved priests deceased one by one. Closing to the rear gate, Priest Isis, the last—and the only female—priest who'd stayed with him during the salvage, offered herself as the Pharaoh's final protector as she activated the last batch of swinging guillotines to differ the undead soldiers' attention.

Turning her head toward the Pharaoh one last time to bless him in the name of Ra, the sun god, she approached the corridor and summoned her mighty spirit, enabling the Pharaoh escaping safely toward the rear gate.

As the rear gate slowly closed behind him, Pharaoh Atem witnessed Priest Isis' slim figure got skewered by the swinging guillotines—her spirit soon got rendered into layers of thin air.

A figure in his black leather cape— Bakura — collected the Millennium Item from her dead body. In his hands were already some of the collected items as well. He was clearly following the Pharaoh and witnessed the massacres from the very first time. Half of his face was covered in blood, and his trembling hands possessed bluish tones.

It was easier to believe that he was a wraith instead of a man.

**KISARA WAS CRYING. SHE CLUNG ON PRIEST SETH'S ARM AS IF IT WAS THE ONLY GUARDIAN OF **her life. Something pierced her bare feet as she ran, and she screamed in agony.

Priest Seth stopped, went down on his knees to check her bleeding feet, removed the sharp object—apparently a fragment of chest armor from a dead soldier's body—and took her in his arms.

It was until under the silvery radiation of the moonlight the Priest saw the blood-covered figure of his father blocked his path, "Extract the spirit, my son, you can be the only ruler of this land," he spread his hand, in his face a menacing smile.

Kisara had already fainted, and from her limp body shone a rush of extremely bright light which slowly formed the shape of a winged dragon.

"There, my son, is the spirit that will lead you victorious. Bathe in it, my son, and be the ONLY RULER OF THE LAND!"

Priest Seth put the body down, was ready to summon the spirit of the black dragon using his Millennium Rod when the white dragon's spirit quickly leaped before him, protecting him from a fatal blow coming out of Priest Aknadin's mouth. The carnage he'd unleashed was colored in pitch-black, like vengeances of the dead souls being spitted altogether in the thin air. When the attack ended, the air still bore death's sour smell, although the previously dense carnage was slowly being dissolved into layers of thin gray fog.

When the fog started clearing before Priest Seth's eyes, all he could see were remnants of sadness, and those emotions alone got crystallized in Kisara's limp body, badly coated in blood.

He wanted to break his ribs, cork out his heart, and drown himself in the passage of time. He desired to be rendered into dust, slowly taking the form of a ghost, melting with the eastern sky's first light when the twilight arrived. He took a long, deep breath, and laid himself next to Kisara's body. He fell asleep before he knew it.

**IT WAS IN HIS DREAMS THAT HE HEARD THE REMAINING WORDS:**

"I've never adored…a man…as much as I adore you, my lord," Kisara said in her remaining might. She caressed the side of Priest Seth's face, wiped the tears on the edge of his eyes, "don't be…sad, my lord…, we will be… together…again."

There, among the remnants of the kingdom, he'd seen the concrete white dragon spirit: her skin was perfectly silverish white, so were her fine fins, and her eyes were distinctively as blue as a pair of aquamarine planted directly into their graceful sockets—the light she emanated outlined the wrecked palace, the cracked bricks which were used as parts of the palace's construction. Among the piles of bricks he'd identified the golden plate which was previously used as the center of the inner hall. Tears soaked his dead eyes, singing a requiem for his hollow heart as he commanded the spirit to unleash the final attack on his corrupted father.

"Stay with me, Kisara," he said, and in the speed of light he'd seen a divine, strong flow of blue wave in the shade of thunder engulfed Priest Aknadin's body, as if to cleanse him from the darkness as a result of his previous pact with Bakura's dark spirit.

The Millennium Items he'd collected fell from behind his thick cape, leaving the old man's dead body resting in peace. His purplish skin had switched back to its natural shade of caramel, and in his face there was a vague smile, as if he'd already slept in peace at last.

When he'd seen the golden rays of the sun slicing a bright line in the far eastern sky, still drenched in his sadness and guilt Priest Seth took Kisara's dead body in his arms, kneeling before a holy tombstone in which he'd just sealed the spirit of blue-eyed white dragon in.

_We will be together again_, the sentence reverberated in his head, leaving him still.

**TO BE CONTINUED**

**

* * *

**

**Note for the Story:**

Bakura's fate isn't sealed in this story because his life would eventually end in Pharaoh Atem's hands, and since he's not the core of the story, instead of our favorite Priest Seth, so the story only seals Seth and Kisara's fates.

**Following this chapter would be an epilogue. Stay tune for the upcoming short update!**

**Author's Note:**

Sorry for taking a very, very long time for update. This is my favorite version of the story, after several edits done. Hope you like it!

To all readers, thank you for those encouraging comments. I love you guys!


	5. Chapter 5

_**Epilogue**_

* * *

**PRESENT DAY**

_We are two little fragments in the open galaxy_

_Hand-in-hand, flesh-to-flesh._

_In the daylight when the first morning warmth greet your face,_

_I will be there sitting beside your unruly bed._

STEPPING DOWN FROM THE BLACK LIMO, THE CEO PUT HIS SILVER LEATHER TRENCH COAT BACK on, covering his fine Hugo Boss white shirt. He held a fine leather briefcase in his right hand, a Marlboro cigarette dangled between his left index and middle fingers.

Before him was the same building—an elegant shape of gigantic twisted heaps of glass-and-stell—with a gigantic corporation logo made of platinum marked the credibility of his richness—his might—his ability to lead, control, and empower his people, leading the company as Japan's one of its finest.

Despite the building's grandiosity and severe arrogance—which, according to his employees somehow resembled the young CEO's aloofness—its spell could no longer affect the fine man's stern expression. He was a secluded world in his own—a city hanging in the sky—an ancient citadel in the middle of a laguna—he was someone almost untouchable, and a bit hard to talk to.

A short raven-haired boy ran toward him and the young man dumped his cigarette, in his face suddenly bloomed an unexpectable smile. As the boy leaped into his embrace, he young man patted his brother's head—"Mokuba!"—but then the smile vanished from his face as he saw a group of funky youngsters went out of the steel-and-glass main gate following the little boy.

He put Mokuba down on his side, and his face switched back into its severe state, "What are you people doing here?"

A raven-haired man whose age was about sixteen—his hair dyed in red and blond, somehow resembled the engraved figure of Pharaoh Atem he'd seen in the museum earlier this day—clad in an oversized white shirt, leather pants, and strappy black calfskin boots was about to answer when Mokuba halted—

"No, no—big brother, I carried them here and gave them their passes to see the recent developments of our favorite Blue Eyes White Dragon!" were the speaker not Mokuba, his beloved little brother, he'd already commanded him to be staked to death.

"I'm outta here, fellas. Big boss is pissed," a man with shoulder-length jet-black hair tied in a ponytail with a long dice-shaped earring shrugged, laughed, and nudged the elbow of the cute Japanese man whose hair had been dyed entirely blond beside him. The cute man laughed along with the man with the earring. The young CEO smiled sarcastically and mocked the "corny green blazer", leaving the cuter one of the two stunned in distaste.

"You cold-hearted rich shit."

"See, Jounouchi? I told you the blazer is damn ugly!" the man with the earring laughed, but it didn't take long because his handphone rang— Justin Timberlake's "Sexy Back" was playing as the ringtone—which he quickly answered with a totally different manly tone for the benefit of the caller. Soon after the call ended, the man stood upright and mouthed everybody—including the stern-looking young CEO—with his eyes glittering and his cheeks flushed red, "she will be here soon.

"She will be here _soon_—oh _shit_!" he tidied his hair and his striped leather vest.

Jounouchi, the cute Japanese man, rolled his eyes and answered mockingly, "Yeah, yeah, Ryuji—like she's going to be interested in you."

Soon after a momentary silence a white sedan pulled over, and a stunning Japanese woman with long, well-nourished dark brown hair stepped out of the car, leaving Ryuji and several strangers stunned as she slammed the door. Her facial features resembled Jounouchi's fine features, only in the more feminine version. Her silk-and-lace floral-patterened—of gorgeous shades of gray, white, black, and light purple—dress looked perfect combined with a pair of slouchy black, heelless motorcycle boots, and a stack of silver-and-leather bracelets around her slim wrist.

"Hi there, sister!" Jounouchi waved at her, and she waved back. It was obvious that she was eyeing the young CEO from the corner of her eyes.

"Who's that charming man over there?" she asked Jounouchi in a low voice, and he looked obviously displeased with the question—"Oh, please!" he groaned, rolling his eyes—"just asking!" she replied with a smile.

"He's Seto Kaiba, man—everybody knows him. The century's biggest jerk."

"I heard you!" Mokuba laughed, jokingly, but his brother remained still, although the admiration between him and the newly-arrived stranger was mutual.

Quickly, the beautiful woman walked toward the man with the fine trench coat and offered her hand, "Kaiba, I'm so glad meeting you! I'm Shizuka Kawai—just arrived from New York after a major eye surgery."

"Pleased to meet you too," he greeted her stern-faced, as if she was his newest bussiness partner instead of an attractive young woman who had nothing to do with Kaiba Corporation.

"Why do you have to look so stern?" she asked, playfully. Her long hair fell perfectly beside her porcelain-skinned oriental face, and on her bare, bony right shoulder, "what's wrong with a bit of smile, or probably, a laughter?"

Seto Kaiba made a half-smile and singled out the woman, "I believe they're signs of weakness."

"Then comedians are all weak, they probably need help," Shizuka shot him a stare; there were obvious sparks flying between their eyes, "and—the newborn babies are, too! Because they all laugh when their mothers tickle their soft flesh!"

He chuckled lightly, leaving everyone—including Mokuba and Jounouchi—stunned in shock, and even more paralyzed as he offered Shizuka his hand, "Care for a lunch?"

_**THE END**_

**Note :**

_Sorry, it's been a long time since I've last updated it. Now that I finally remember that the story is incomplete, I'm posting this long-forgotten last chapter to make it complete._

_This one's been completed since a long time ago (probably September last year) and just been posted now. So sorry once again. _

_Hope you guys enjoy the epilogue!_


	6. The Seventh Priest

**The Seventh Priest**

_When I wrote _Galeway_ back in September, I hadn't expected so many people would like the story: It was written more out of pure fun, to please myself. When I got so many favorites and story alerts I was surprised, really, but at the same time I am happy. Here is a bonus chapter written for my readers who have either added _Galeway_ to their favorites and alerts or simply had dropped in to write me heartwarming reviews. _

_I always take my readers seriously, both as a writer and as another somebody across the net. Here is a little token of appreciation, just for you guys. _:-)

**Note: Some scenes are reminiscent from Chapters 1, 2, 3 and 4 – Since chapter 5 is an optional one, this has nothing to do with it.**

Summary: Oneshot – Chapter is made as an alternate to the original epilogue. Starring the real Kisara and Seto in the present-day Japan.

Disclaimer: I just own the plot.

* * *

**The Seventh Priest**

"_We will be together again…"_

I SAW HIM ONE SPRING EVENING at a small jazz bar located near a fashionable district in Aoyama. He was alone, his whole attention drawn to a book in front of him. It was early evening, still quite bright outside, but something told me that the man would rather be inside the dimly-lit bar, staying with himself. He was a book with its cover concealed, a rare insect protecting himself under an impressive skin. That skin was a classic Burberry trench, the newest model of Tag Heuer sport glasses and a pair of Ferragamo patent leather loafers.

He was sitting at a table right next to the window. I was attracted, alright; I'd never seen that kind of man in a long time. I wouldn't say that he was a handsome man, because he had a passionate look on his face that was somehow intimidating. Regular girls would easily take him as handsome, but not for me, not for that stern air about him.

THE JAZZ BAR was named after a vintage Jean-Luc Goddard film,_ Pierrot le Fou_. Certainly not a famous one: more of a deserted jazz bar at the end of a small street. The atmosphere in there wasn't something I'd say as comfortable: The air reeked of dust, coffee, and leather. The owner was a woman in his mid forties and her young son about my age. Her smile was ill-at-ease as she welcomed me.

"Black coffee," I said to her, "Make it really black."

She smiled.

The man still had his eyes to the book. A medium paperback. I made an attempt to read a line or two, just in case I'd figure out the title. Not so that I would be able to attract him by talking about it later, I simply wanted to know what the book was. For such man the book would be half of his personality, probably even a nice seventy per cent of it. You would be able to know it by just one look that he was a voracious reader.

* * *

I SAT TWO TABLES AWAY FROM HIM. I'd rather a wooden chair and a simple wooden table. I disliked the impression of sitting lazily on a sofa. He was still reading very seriously, as if the world around him had vanished. His cell phone rang from time to time, which he ignored for several times before finally turning it off.

The coffee arrived. I was still looking at him.

"Ever wonder why a man like that would rather be inside a ravaged jazz bar?"

The owner's son smiled as he moved the cup from the tray to my table.

I looked around. An old saxophone player and a pianist about the same age were on the small stage in the corner. They were playing their renditions of Bud Powell and Duke Ellington, lighting a cigarette from time to time, as if it was their lives that they were playing for. Really, that was a good performance.

"I wouldn't say 'ravaged'," I said.

"Then I take you are noticing that man," he said, "He's a frequent. I heard he's a boss of this big company."

I said nothing. When he was about to move a small glass of liquid sugar to the table, I waved it off.

He continued: "Whether that 'big company' is a Mitsubishi or not, I'm pretty sure he must be pretty damn rich."

"He sure looks 'damn rich'," I said, chuckling.

The man lifted his eyes from the book, took of his glasses, put it down on the table, took a sip of his coffee then massaged his eyes while glancing out the windows. The way he gazed outside gave me the impression that he was looking for a missing thing amidst the crowds and lights.

It wasn't even a minute later when our eyes met. The owner's son was still there by my table, but soon leaved with an unhappy look on his face.

The music on the background was "The Star-Crossed Lovers".

* * *

THE MAN SMILED. OR WAS IT A SMILE? It lasted for several seconds, very short, until he waved at the owner's son who was already behind the counter for a pack of Camels.

"Are yours new?" asked the man as soon as the young man reached his table, "The last thing I want is cigarettes that taste like wet woods."

"New," the young man's voice trembled as he spoke, "We've just restocked them yesterdays."

I waited for a while before taking my own book from the bag; probably our eyes would meet again. That never happened. He had returned to the book. I looked at him for a long time; I took him as an impressive stranger. All of his movements shouted grace and arrogance: The slim, long fingers he used to turn the yellowed pages, the ones that held the cigarette… His long, slim legs wrapped in fine suede trousers were crossed. The entire scene looked like a caption from an old European movie.

Then there was the song "Sophisticated Lady".

* * *

I WORKED IN A SMALL LIBRARY IN SHINJUKU, a private-owned one. The library was never crowded. To start with, it wasn't even a very famous place. The biggest number of visitors was about twenty, or thirty. For years I'd never seen the record increased. I guess the place had sort of chosen its own fate. My grandfather's friend who owned it died last year with no heir with a passion for books, so I was kind of in charge of it.

Come to think of it: the previous owner had dedicated his life to collect and read one rare book of another, and he died with no one willing to take care of what used to be his personal sanctuary.

The library struck me as having the life of its own, more like a world detached from the real one. I always believed too much collision with reality would bring the building crumbling.

The building was a mixture of old European and Japanese architecture. More of Japanese actually, except for the glass dome above the round hall in the center. Lights, moon and sun, would filter through, making the round hall looked like an area inside a blurred dream. The round hall was the only place visitors loved the most. Most of them would look up, sometimes for a long time, as if amazed before they sat down on a sofa nearby. Some of them had even told me personally that they took the round hall as a dream, or a sanctuary.

If there was only a visitor or two I'd go to the history books section then take a random title or two, most of them were translated centuries-old literatures of Egyptian history. I didn't know what it was about Egypt that got me enchanted: Once I started reading I could hardly put it down. I'd read for four or six hours with only a cup of coffee in front of me, and an occasional half-an-hour break. So much for this habit, I had gotten horribly skinny. My friends started criticizing my look, some had even accused me of concealing an eating disorder. I remained indifferent.

My "horrible" thinness was caused by thick, leather-bound old books of Egyptian history, nothing else.

* * *

THE TITLE OF THE BOOK I WAS READING was _The Seventh Priest_.

The introduction had mentioned that Priest Seth was among the seven honorable priests of an Egyptian Pharaoh whose name the writer couldn't discover because the emblem found around his mummified neck had been badly scratched as if to conceal the name. Priest Seth was, according to the book, a stern believer in spirits, especially of the ones inside sacred items called Millennium Items (The writer was experiencing difficulty at this point, because most recites from the transcription to justify the fact about the Priest being spiritual was heavy with [illegible] between the words).

The book was in diary format: Probably a diary of an unknown soldier or citizen in that era, the fall of the once-glorious empire. The writer, who had worked on arranging the ancient transcriptions into a story while adding lines of interpretations to complement the age-old literature, was an American who would be 101 if he lived up to this year.

I Googled his name and found out that he'd died a year after the completion of the book.

A mysterious cause.

* * *

_The __kingdom, once glorious, was struck by a sudden turmoil as a spirit-carrying thief [illegible] attacked the palace. The Pharaoh and his seven Priests had taken over the grandest responsibility to defend the kingdom. Most of the priests died defending it, among them one of the strongest one Shada and [illegible], the only priestess. _

_Priest Seth went missing during the fifth day of the ambush. He was later found escaping from the dungeon, carrying a silver-haired __woman in his arms. She was her lover, the possessor of the White Dragon Spirit._

_I discovered her name later, engraved on a simple tombstone, [illegible]. The Priest had buried her himself, having allowed no other hand to hold the woman's dead body._

_She was very beautiful even in death, [illegible], and I took her as having something inside her spirit, something that had held her beauty in place. _

I was about turn the page when a woman walked in. She was wearing a long white dress that looked good on her finely tanned skin. Her hair was very black and very long, and was let down. Her face reminded me of Greta Garbo's Cleopatra, only she looked more original and more Egyptian than the vintage Hollywood rendition. The way she walked were light, fast, almost seem from behind the counter that she was gliding on air instead of walking. She had such ghostly presence, but it was probably because of her haunting beauty and the cold kind of arrogance in her eyes.

She asked me for _The Seventh Priest_.

* * *

"SORRY, THIS BOOK IS NOT AVAILABLE FOR RENTING," I said.

She leaned closer and said in a low, piercing tone:

"You don't know, Lady," she said, "The danger that you're going to face is not going to wait until you've finished reading it."

I shook my head and smiled, trying to give the impression that I was unperturbed.

"I'm sorry for the inconvenience." I said, changing the topic. Something told me that the woman would launch into endless talks of ancient mysticisms if I played her game, so I'd rather not.

She took a small paper from her bag then wrote down her name and contact number. An Egyptian name: Isis. I took her as a perfect personification of the name: her haunting presence, her unbelievably good looks, her throaty voice… She left soon after she'd finished writing, without even a parting word.

_The Priest was torn between the dark desire of his father and his humanly kindness, an old priest [illegible] who was possessed by the spirit of death to draw the white dragon spirit out of his lover's body. To this, the Priest Seth had said that he'd rather let her __live. He'd rather live, despite his bleeding feet and another close step to the throne._

_The lover died at daylight._

I took the book everywhere: to my room, the dining table, to cafés or restaurants I visited during afternoon break… to _Pierrot le Fou_ after I closed the library at seven. That was the second time after a fortnight when I saw that man again. He was sitting right at the table by the window as he was the first time, reading a different book – a thick hardback this time – smoking his regular Camels with legs crossed. He had the same passionate gaze as he leafed through the pages, as he corrected the placement of his glasses, as he crossed and re-crossed his legs. The young man behind looked at him with a distant gaze, as if trying to tell himself that he would rather had nothing to do with the man.

I ordered my usual thick black coffee and was about to spread _The Seventh Priest_ on wooden table when the man looked at me. It was more of a suspecting gaze than an enchanted one, although I wouldn't mind both. He kept looking at me, then the book on the table, as if he'd known and read it over and over again. Before his death, the old owner had told me that _The Seventh Priest_ in the library was the only copy left in Japan, after its massive banning and burning back in the 60s.

He stood up then approached my table. He had a slim glass of thick red wine in his hand. "Can I join you?" he asked with his deep, dark, scratchy kind of voice. I nodded. (Honestly I'd rather this man left me alone, but who was I to turn down a stranger?)

"A very old copy, isn't it?"

"Yes, a… fifties edition," I said, "Probably even the publisher had been folded."

He smiled – _or was it? _Whether the man wanted to give me the impression that he was actually smiling or not, smiling was probably the expression he disliked the most.

"How would you know if the transcripts could be trusted?"

"Are you talking about the ones in the book?"

He nodded.

"Even these were stories which were collected to lead us into believing that they had once happened – only gods know," I said. "Besides, real or not, it is the essence of the history that got me interested, not the theories."

He glanced at his table for a while, to make sure that his book and cigarette pack were there.

"Sometimes you would know its realness by heart, not science."

I smiled. I didn't care how wide it was: his statement made me really glad.

"Say," I said, leaning forward, "Have you ever got that… distant, sad feeling as you read history books? A feeling of you being so close, yet so far from the history itself?"

In a low tone, he said:

"Yes, at times," he said, "Two books before this one I was reading was a rare edition about a young Egyptian Pharaoh and his seven priests. It was in French, because the author had been doing it discreetly in Algeria."

"Good transcription?"

"Bad transcription," he said, "There were too many unreadable bits between the lines. I wondered why in the first place the publisher had decided to publish the book, although the distribution wasn't meant to cover the areas outside the country."

"Sometimes reasons were just reasons, leave alone the cause." I said.

He smiled: another faint one.

"Say," he said, "a glass of red wine?"

I nodded.

"Name's Kisara," I said. "We've been talking without even knowing the names."

"Kaiba Seto," he said.

"Please tell me that you're _not_ the young CEO in the news?"

He lifted the glasses from his eyes. As he did so, his light brown hair brushed the tips of the rimless lenses.

"Unfortunately," he said, "I am him."

"The press is sort of having this… love/hate relationship with you," I said with a smile. "Where is your famous coldness? I couldn't see it today."

"It doesn't have to be with me all the time," he said. "Probably today's your lucky day, because I don't have it with me."

The red wine was served.

* * *

_IT WAS A DARK HUNGER __that had taken over the soul of the Priest. After her death, all of a sudden he went after the throne, the half-collapsed throne, for a reason kept secret by the gods. The Pharaoh [illegible] agreed to hand it over on one condition: The Priest had to win a match in a battle of spirits…_

The woman Isis came again the following day. She stared at me right in the eyes with that piercing look of hers, telling me that the danger was approaching. "You would be able to sense it close, The Dark Heart. He is here in this present-day. He is approaching."

I pretended as if I hadn't heard a disturbing thing. I thanked her for her attention. She asked me again for _The Seventh Priest._ Again I told her that the book was a private collection, renting was prohibited.

"Lady, you and a man are in danger," Isis said. "You and a man that once had a connection in the past. The times were about to be interlaced atop each other – the old current and the new one."

I shook my head.

"Look, Madame," I said. "Really, I don't know what you're talking about: the time, the mysticism, and this one man with whom we would be in a danger. I know nothing, I am just a reader of these history books. I even had zero connection with the authors, dead or alive, or the original manuscripts. If you really want the book that badly, I could arrange a copy for you, but please never, never again trying to scare me off. I am just a librarian, a Nobody, perhaps and I have nothing to do with Egyptian history."

The time I finished talking, I felt as if I'd run out of breath.

"How about a glass of iced milk? I'm about to prepare one for myself as well."

She said nothing. I took the no-response as a yes, so I went to the kitchen then prepared two tall glasses of iced milk.

The time I returned to the desk, the woman had left.

I had a feeling that I would never see her again.

* * *

_I SAW THE SPARKS AGAINST THE DARK SKY.__ The match had taken place amidst the ruined palace; once the stones were majestic, the decorations brimmed with precious stones, but then in a week following the ambush of the Thief, everything had gone. Gone, as if the gods had decided to abandon the young Pharaoh, his kingdom, and the young Priest in front of him._

_The White Dragon Spirit tried talking to him from time to time, the Priest. She said that she would protect him, but not for the power he was about to take over. The Priest said nothing, but I had seen his face changed expression. I remembered the day I accompanied him to the street markets, where he had first seen the lover: He, Priest Seth, he had the same look in his eyes as the first time he landed the eyes on the woman._

* * *

FIRST DAY OF MARCH.

It was raining when I met the CEO again at _Pierrot le Fou_. He had with him two books: one was the one he was reading, and the other one a slim volume I'd seen the first time I saw him with.

"There you are," he said. "Something told me that you're going to be here, today, so I have the book with me."

I suggested him to move from the sofa to my usual place, the one with wooden chairs. For a moment I'd merely forgotten that I was asking to a very rich young man with a high social rank to follow my… request. It seemed rather surprising even in the mind.

"I may disappoint you," I said, "But I don't read French."

"No, that's fine," he said. "There are only about two pages where the story reached the peak – that was the time I felt distant, sad. I am going to translate them for you in my notebook."

"Much obliged," I said. "Anyway mine, the story makes me feel distant all the time. I'll lend you this after I'd finished reading, alright? I'm at the tenth chapter now; they were having sort of this… match of spirits, the Priest and the young Pharaoh."

"Seems like you have a lot more to tell."

I wondered for a while whether I should really tell him about Isis and her warnings. I wonder if he'd think that I was crazy, like Isis, or that he would believe me. All of a sudden I became aware of how I'd look in front of him. This insecurity was like no other: This was a sentiment from… a long time ago, a really long time. It was as if I'd experienced this specific kind of sentiment from in the past. When the past was, I knew almost nothing of it.

"There was this woman," I said in a low voice, "It was until two weeks ago she kept appearing, day after day, to warn me about reading this book, and that a danger is waiting for me and a man I know nothing of him yet. I thought she was some kind of a shaman, or magician. She had this ghastly presence about her – how to say – long makes short, she scared me off. I told her that I wanted no more warnings, but she never came back since then.

"Oh, she said something about the possible interlacing between the old time and the new one… Said that it is going to happen soon, the interlacing, and The Dark Heart is approaching: as in present tense. He _is_ approaching…"

When I finished talking, he said nothing, just kept looking at me.

I thought the story about the woman had scared him off, too, but then I realized that I was crying. My tears were falling like melted wax all over my cheeks, for the reason I knew nothing of. I wasn't even sad, really, I wasn't even really scared, to put it frankly. The tears kept falling, falling, soon my hands were trembling too. It was another sentiment that felt strange to me, a sentiment very distant yet very close. Something from a long time ago… but it wasn't from the childhood, no.

He took my trembling hand. _"Stay with me, Kisara."_ – the words echoed in my head, causing a headache. I felt really bad, as if I was about to throw up.

Probably I did, probably I didn't throw up. The next thing I knew was Isis's warning kept repeating itself in the head: _The Dark Heart is approaching… The Dark Heart is approaching… _I saw the world around me being swallowed into a perfect shade of white. White, then there was nothing else than the echoes intermingling with each other.

"_We will be together again, my lord."; "Stay with me, Kisara!"; "My son, you could take over the kingdom, take it over! TAKE IT OVER!"; "This Holy Match is going to give you no satisfaction, Seth!"; "We will be together again, my lord…"_

The last sentence sounded exactly like my voice.

* * *

**You are free to imagine the ending.**

**Feel free to PM me or type it in the review. I'll certainly get back to you!**


	7. The Seventh Priest  02

**The Star-Crossed Lovers**

**For ****lesnuitsdhiver and Mara.**

This chapter is related to Chapter 6: The Seventh Priest. 

Summary: He answered one last call and told me that we would meet again. _Would_ meet again, he said, and I felt that the phrase was lacking something. Probably it was me wishing that he'd say we should meet again, instead of would.

Disclaimer: I just own the plot.

* * *

**The Star-Crossed Lovers**

"_We will be together again, my lord."; "Stay with me, Kisara!"; "My son, you could take over the kingdom, take it over! TAKE IT OVER!"; "This Holy Match is going to give you no satisfaction, Seth!"; "We will be together again, my lord…"_

IT LASTED FOR SOME TIME, the dizziness, the next time I knew I was running out of breath, beads of cold sweat in my hands. I thought I had gone to hell and back. I was trembling.

He was still holding my hand, and when I looked at him he had that surprised/worried expression on his face. He narrowed his eyes, as if trying to figure out what happened with me.

When he let go of the hand, I felt that the storms that were approaching had been calmed down. I breathed in the wood-scented air and ordered a coffee.

He lit a cigarette.

"I thought you were about to pass out," he said.

"Sure I was," I said. "I heard clusters of voices; like… noises."

He let out a leisurely exhalation. I loved the scent. The library owner smoked Camels, too, days and nights, as he read, as he took his morning and afternoon walks, before lunches and dinners… Take that away from him and I was sure that he wouldn't be able to live.

I smiled in that remembrance. Soon the turmoil I'd experienced earlier starting calming down, too.

"I guess you're alright now," he said calmly.

Silence.

The coffee arrived. He handed the full ashtray to the garçon and asked for a new one.

"I love the smell," I said. "Your cigarette. Mr. Yamamoto smoked them too. When he died I was sad. Sometimes I'd walk the corridors to find that scent. No more."

"And why are you telling me this?"

"For nothing," I said. "You happen to smoke the same brand, guess I gotta tell."

His cell phone rang. This time he picked it up: "I'll be there in fifteen minutes."; "Prepare the papers, as always, then clean up the meeting desk. Not a single spot of dust."

I sipped on my coffee. He hung up.

"Work," he said. "Here's my notebook and name card. Contact me soon when you've finished reading the translation."

He stood up, waved at the counter as if to tell that he wouldn't need the empty ashtray anymore. He walked there and paid the bill.

I waved at him as he left the café.

* * *

I WENT TO THE LIBRARY to check on the locks, the desks, and the sofas once more before finally taking the book from the reception desk where I'd left it. I prepared for myself a glass of iced milk before I went home.

I thought of the meeting as I was onboard the train. I felt stupid, really stupid. "Sometimes I'd walk the corridors to find that scent." Why did I say it? To shake off the thought I plugged the earphones then listened to Ryuichi Sakamoto.

The notebook in hand, I started reading. It was a five-minute ride home, plenty of time for three or four pages. Impeccable translation, I had to say. I didn't know whether it was the original passages that sounded that way, because the lines in English were really fluid, as if I was reading it straight from an edited book.

_The thief had with him Zorc Necrophades, a demigod whose __half of the body shaped like a giant snake. He carried the spirit as he ravaged the castle, killed the guards even slaughtered the priests. The Pharaoh fought against him in the end, although the result was unknown. Assumptions said that the Pharaoh, undoubtedly, won because his mummified body was discovered intact._

_However, the body of the thief remained unknown. It was never found._

* * *

IT WASN'T UNTIL ANOTHER TWO WEEKS when we met again at _Pierrot le Fou._ I never called him, I just had the feeling that he would be there. He _belonged_ there.

The air smelled of Camel. He took off the glasses then pressed on his forehead lightly before he greeted me. I returned the book. I told him that the translation was amazing. "I wouldn't agree. It was something rigid, imperfect. A draft, I may say."

I wouldn't try to change his opinion. Sure, I thought, he was a dyed-in-the-wool perfectionist. Trying to remind someone like that about how awesome his work already was would only pressure him even more.

_The seventh priest was Seth. H__e was among the most brilliant and most trusted ones besides Shada and Isis. An old transcription said that he was trying to save his lover (a vain attempt) before finally faced a bitter fate in which he had to kill his possessed father. The failed attempt to save his lover's spirit from being extracted by his father during the final hours got him badly damaged at heart. _

_Finding no way out to express his depression and vengeance, he focused on taking over the kingdom. In that attempt also included challenging the Pharaoh in a sacred match._

"So," I said, changing the topic, "I'd read about Priest Seth's lover."

He put back his glasses then lit a new cigarette. His usual red wine arrived.

"I have to say it was pretty hardcore," I continued.

He chuckled. For the first time since I'd met him, that expression, that happy expression, seemed real enough.

"He got the powerful spirit, though, but he wasn't happy with that," I continued.

Silence; such immense silence that the music played by the band sounded distant. He looked at his hands on the table as if doing a deep thinking.

This time he was the one that looked as if he was about to pass out. The cigarette fell from between his fingers then unconsciously elbowed the wine glass off the table. The garçon rushed to our table, panicked.

"What the hell? Mr. Rich got sudden heart-attack?" he whispered then quickly stepped on the cigarette on the floor. Too late: a burnt spot was already formed.

I shook my head then asked for a glass of cold water.

When he finally returned to his senses, I told him to drink the water. He remained quiet for a while; quiet, even when his cell phone vibrated over and over. It was as if he had forgotten about his existence, where he was.

He drank some more. Taking a deep breath, he was about to light a new cigarette when I told him not to.

"Feel better?"

"Those voices," he said in a low tone, almost whispering.

I was about to ask him about what he'd heard, but decided that it would be better if none of us mentioned that, at least for now. Bad dreams, Egyptian stories and voices… leave them alone for now, I thought.

Half-past four. The time where he should return to the office. He answered one last call and told me that we would meet again. _Would_ meet again, he said, and I felt that the phrase was lacking something. Probably it was me wishing that he'd say we should meet again, instead of would. 'Would' made it sounded like a premonition.

When he left I knew that I should call Isis.

* * *

SHE CAME TO THE LIBRARY in her usual majestic manner. Pure Greta Garbo and her fifties Hollywood charm. She was so beautiful I felt as if I was a little nothing standing in front of her. Probably that was the reason I never felt at ease around her.

"I'm sorry for the unpleasant things that happened between us," I said. "You can have the book now, really, if it endangers me I'd rather keep away from it."

She smiled. A dark, mysterious smile.

"Too late," she said. All of a sudden I felt an abrupt need to slap her here and now. First, it wasn't like I believed her. Second, once I decided that I wanted to keep myself safe, she told me that it was too late.

"The Dark Heart is already close, I guess," I said, playing her game. I wondered what she would tell me later.

"You shouldn't lose hope, though," she said. For the first time since I met her, the way she encouraged me this time seemed friendly, even human enough. I felt ashamed to had wanted to slap her earlier. "Remember the man I told you about earlier? He had saved you in the past, although it was a failed attempt, and in the future when everything is unlocked, and the passage of time has repeated itself once more, big is the chance that he would be able to successfully save you in this time. Let alone the past."

I pondered about the sentence for a while.

Among the seven priests was Seth,…, who was trying to save his lover.

If this was inside a movie, I would laugh until I couldn't pull my tongue back in anymore.

"By any chance could this man be Priest Seth?" I asked her, still attempting to adapt to the freaky talk. I wished that she would suddenly break into a loud laughter and told me that everything was a crazy joke, and that I had succumbed to the entire scenario.

"The Priest in the present-day, yes." She didn't break out laughing! I wondered if I should be serious. Probably I was trapped inside this nightmare and the darkness was slowly consuming my sanity, taking away the common senses in me. I didn't know….

I rummaged through the memories about the Priest of Egypt's physical descriptions._ His skin was in the shade of olive, his green resembled a pair of raw emeralds then there was his brown hair…His majestic way of dressing up, his slim, nimble fingers he always moved with grace…. _(If the Priest did exist in present-day Japan, he would've been a model or a movie star, someone who had probably been exported to Hollywood, like Ken Watanabe.)

Impossible.

I still wished that she'd break off laughing. She didn't; she even kept that serious look on her stunning face, which hurt me even more. The last thing I wanted was to look for some knockout movie star and told him that he was the one who could save me from "The Dark Heart". Even if I managed to see that person, he'd probably take me as a regular nut then got over it.

"I take it that he lives with a different name, different face then?"

I hoped she'd say something like: Yes, different name, different face. He was probably ugly in the present-day, but the inside remains the same; the good old Priest Seth.

That way the possibility of him being some kind of star could be narrowed.

"Different name, probably, as with the features, some would remain the same…" she said in a low voice. "I had seen many reincarnated people… they retain their old features, although there are changes, insignificant ones, like the color of the skin or eyes."

Excellent.

I thanked her and offered her a cup of coffee. This time, though, she didn't leave until she'd finished the coffee. "Excellent coffee," she said.

We chatted some more then a little before six, she excused herself.

When she left the room I rapid-fired the internet looking for information about young actors, writer, painters, bosses that were handsome and was on a constant rise to the top. Here it was! _Top Twenty Young Men in Japan You Should be Aware Of._ A list. Most remained the same; your regular movie stars and band singers, the sons of some tycoon who had won a multimillion deal, I scrolled down the page, scrolled and scrolled until I reached number one.

Kaiba Seto.

* * *

I clicked on his name, triggering a whole page filled with his data, quotes, even fashion spreads and formal shots. A recent shot was quite minimalistic, although he showed some flesh. Stunning, really, not that behind the camera he'd turned into a different person or that the editing was over-the-top, but it was more like without the thoughtful look on his face, as he toned down those intensities a little, I could finally see his beauty.

It is said that Kaiba Seto had been offered a role in a short independent movie, that is, an idealistic work of a famous movie director R, based on a novelette by Murakami Haruki.

All the time I had been talking to a celebrity.

No wonder he'd rather be locked away in _Pierrot le Fou_. Downtown, young girls would tear him alive.

_Kaiba, of course, turned down the __offer. He said he was suited more behind the desk, not behind the camera. With the refusal the director finally decided to decline the making of the movie, having refused other real actors that offered to play in the movie for free._

Then there was a close-up portrait.

I tried to concentrate on his features that probably resembled the descriptions inside the history books. I thought I had really gone mad this time: I compared the face of a real, breathing person to the descriptions aged beyond five thousand years old.

I couldn't. He was too handsome.

* * *

THAT NIGHT WAS THE NIGHT I HAD A NIGHTMARE. It was about a spirit and a raven-haired man trying to find their way out of a ravaged underground dungeon. I recognized the stones, the slices of indigo sky I could see through the collapsed stones, even the silence… I could hear, recognize it. The next time I knew I was in front of a ravaged cage, but it wasn't where the thief was imprisoned. My veins were filled with a strange coldness, as if something had entered me, something that was inside this ravaged prison. It was calming, the time when it went inside me. I tried to find a way out, but this underground prison was too ruined, as if it had been let alone for a long time to rot there, to be one with the nature. Some stones were already very fragile; a gentle step could crush them into pieces. I hoped that there was nothing that constructed the wall reacted that way, less I'd be killed.

Someone was waiting near the entrance; at least I took that slice of light for the entrance. That person came in the form of silhouette, I could only see the outlines of his figure, as lined by the lights.

He extended his hands as if reaching out to me.

I woke up.

* * *

THE DREAM, at first I thought it was just because Isis had influenced me. I simply refused, inside myself, to believe that I had gone 'spiritual' like her. When it kept recurring, I was forced to see the possible outcomes of fact. Two entities, a thief and his snake-bodied spirit, were trying to break loose. For now the ruins still prevented them from doing so. Then there was a ravaged prison then that something that went inside me in a soothing way. A man was reaching out to me near the entrance… I rearranged the pieces, as if trying to write down a story. And I did; I wrote it in my notebook. Soon enough I could see the images when I was wide awake.

Still, everything had taken such a massive turn I hardly had a time to reflect. Everything was strange. First there was that meeting with Kaiba Seto, then came the scent of his Camel that reminded me of the late Mr. Yamamoto. Soon we were already talking like old friends because of Egyptian history. Then there was Isis and her warnings. I heard voices. He'd recently heard them too, Kaiba. Everything, everything was lightning-fast, I thought I'd rather someone take me out of this hole before those dreams started consuming me bit by bit… ever so slowly.

Soon I'd be no more if I was forced to live this kind of life.

Which one was dream, which one was reality?

Soon I was trying to match his face with someone in a five thousand years old history.

The main question was: Why was I so sure that he might be Priest Seth in the past? Say he was; would he remember? Then where would that put me in that ancient history? That I was his lover whose spirit was extracted by force by his possessed father?

Then the thief and that spirit, where would they be in this present-day?

Bad omen.

I simply couldn't imagine a raven-haired man possessing this grotesque spirit onboard the trains or walking the streets of downtown Tokyo after dark.

A bit more of these and soon I wouldn't be able to separate madness from sanity.

* * *

I CAME TO _PIERROT LE FOU_ three days later, seven in the evening.

It was raining, a light drizzle. He wasn't there. I waited for him to show up, smelling of Camel and leather. He never did.

All the time during the waiting that day I felt as if I was waiting for ever.

* * *

"I'M HAVING A RECURRING DREAM."

It was a month later, the meeting. He'd been busy and the press had been hunting him like hungry hawks. The famous movie director tried his next luck and had been phoning him as if there was no tomorrow. He was well worn out, and the signs were on his face.

"I wouldn't mind a long story. I have enough time to kill," I said.

Funny, this understanding. He had never even asked me that he wanted to spill everything out, but I just understood.

"A thief, I think, raven-haired, and his oddly-shaped spirit, like a… a snake were trying to break free from this… ravaged dungeon," he said, carefully arranging the words. He certainly wasn't the type that tells long stories. "Then I was standing near this – how to say – entrance of this ravaged dungeon. I was trying to save someone, but that person was so distant I couldn't see the face. And that someone was… a precious person to me. I felt as if all I needed was to reach out to her, to save her… I don't know."

He stopped abruptly, as if feeling ashamed of himself of having spoken so many.

I leaned closer to him, to tell him that it was alright to continue.

He hesitated a bit then started telling the story after he'd lit a cigarette.

"You were telling me about a precious person trapped in the dungeon."

"I take the emotion I felt in that dream wasn't real," he said. "I had never felt like that before… not a long time. In the dream I felt as if I almost… _loved_ her, but then I don't know how to describe it without making myself a laughing stock. I'd rather stop here, if you don't mind."

I nodded. I sipped on my coffee, and he his red wine.

Silence. For a long time, it was only us and the same band.

He called the garçon and handed him a wad of money. "For the band."

I thought of that young man, the son of the owner, I wondered after this day he'd still take his mother's good old _Pierrot le Fou_ as a 'ravaged bar'. Probably wouldn't.

I decided to break the silence after several minutes passed by. I thought he was still ashamed of himself, of not being able to keep his cool, of had spoken too many…

"You know, I have a recurring dream too…"

* * *

HE DIDN'T COME TO THE CAFÉ for a long time since that night. Soon I was checking everything about him from the internet, like an infatuated admirer. I looked at two more recent fashion spreads in which he was wearing all-black, including a designer leather jacket; a very expensive piece, I recalled, it was from recycled and reconstructed leather of a jacket that was once worn by a famous British rock star in the 60s.

He was born for that jacket. But not for the long stories.

I imagined the phone calls from the movie director. Then the editor of the fashion magazine telling him to take the jacket with him. He'd probably pull out those fat wads of money and got it right away.

No news about him, no phone call. I started feeling empty. I started feeling as if my regular days in the library, the days I used to sink behind books, had gone somewhere.

The excitement I felt was no longer there.

I was thinking about him in a strange way.

It was as if I almost loved him.

* * *

FIRST DAY OF AUGUST.

Fall was approaching. The air was piercing cold. As usual I visited _Pierrot le Fou_ after the library was closed. Like a recurring dream, he was there, like the first time I saw him. He was wearing the camel trench coat, same leather shoes, wearing those glasses, he was even reading seriously with an ashtray and a glass of red wine in front of him. Just like the first time. The difference was that I didn't take him as a stranger anymore.

_Where the hell were you? _I felt that need thick and clear. Another second and those words would come out of my mouth.

He turned at me and smile. The band was playing "The Star-Crossed Lovers". I walked toward him, slowly, very slowly, as if savoring the melody suspended in the air.

The dimly-lit interior, the languorous saxophone play, his elegant gestures as he waved at me…

I sat facing him. He put down the book in his hand then looked at me.

"I'd figured it out," he said. "These months I'd been trying to figure it out, to find a better way to tell."

The hesitation that was once there was no more. In his place, a new person seemed to be taking an old place. He no longer had that cold, threatening air about him. Now the elegance was well mixed with peace and his good old mysterious nature.

I was ready for some more madness. Even if he'd say that he was once Priest Seth, I wouldn't be surprised.

No longer I wanted that this entire drama about past-life and The Dark Heart was some joke. It would be such bitter ending, after all it had done to entangle me in.

"Do you believe in reincarnation?" he asked.

I nodded, although I wasn't a hundred per cent sure, I nodded.

"You know, the first time I saw you walked in here, I thought I had known you somewhere," he continued. A weight dropped from my heart. "I didn't say that, of course because I was aware that you would take me as some crazy, desperate person. But even now, I thought we had met somewhere…"

He sipped on his wine then brought the cigarette to his lips.

"Hey anyway," I said, trying to break the seriousness. With the music still playing in the background, this scene was dangerous. I could be easily carried away. Probably I'd even really _loved_ him the time the conversation was over. "The woman Isis mentioned something about it too, the reincarnation, and that Priest Seth's essence is alive inside someone in this present-day Japan. Please tell me that she was as crazy as I thought she was."

He shook his head. Unexpected. He smoked some more before crushing the cigarette butt in the ashtray.

"I'd rather think that she was serious."

"I wonder," I said. "Then, hypothetically speaking, they are probably destined to meet again, to fall for each other again, that he would keep her save this time to cover the past faults…"

He smiled. A real, vivid smile this time.

"Hypothetically speaking, those are possible, yes." He was looking at me right in the eyes as he spoke. Time felt as if it was passing slower than its usual pace. I was trembling – joy or fear?

The music had finished playing.

He told the garçon that he wanted the band to play it again, "The Star-Crossed Lovers".

The voices repeated themselves in my head again this time, and I bet in his too; Pleasant repetitions this time.

We remained staring at each other for a long, long time.

As if there was no longer past or future, I was sure that the burdened passage of time had since long made its exit.

* * *

** Update:**

**_The Seventh Priest_ is now an independent story;**

**refer to it for the special epilogue ! :-D **


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